Thursday 3 January 2008

Moon

A cup stolen from an old lady’s crockery
Collection; hanging since theft, full of dust
and futility. Clouds fill it with water and
it overflows whole night. What are you moon? A
page torn from an antiquarian’s darling book
or a croissant for a hungry and poor
at unreachable length. One day I saw you
at matinee show, the actor was in between
a soliloquy. You were on the front seat
like a spurned lover squandering time in
crowd and stories of others. Its romantic
to say that you are a lost pillow for
a syphilitic poet. Mother for an orphan,
a coin for an aged whore, of silver.

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